


Long Time

by fuck_me_barnes, intrinsicklutz



Series: Long Time [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Classic Amnesiac Supersoldiers, Classic Cars, Classic Rock, M/M, Mechanic Bucky Barnes, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Recovered Memories, Tags May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-17 05:13:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4653678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuck_me_barnes/pseuds/fuck_me_barnes, https://archiveofourown.org/users/intrinsicklutz/pseuds/intrinsicklutz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which a traumatized and confused fella named Jim appears out of nowhere one night in a small town, works the night shift at a rural gas station, restores vintage cars in his free time, and learns who he is, all over again.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>or</i></p><p> </p><p>the grease monkey!Bucky AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [Why yes, I did name this AU after a Boston song.](https://youtu.be/BTFD5DZwK7g)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> So, we have no idea how frequently this will update, but we've been tossing ideas and prompts about this back and forth for two chapters now and we really like it?

“I’ll be damned,” the store manager whistled. He watched the video one more time at half-speed, just to be sure, before he stepped out of his office. The night clerk waited behind the counter; the smell of bleach still lingered from the store’s disinfectant spray, and a rag hung limp in his gloved left hand.

He’d showed up at the gas station a few months back. Long hair, worn clothes, a baseball cap down low on his head. Asked about the sign posted in the window, the one advertising an opening for a third-shift attendant at the gas station. He didn’t have any references, but the store’d been having problems with shoplifters and he oozed ‘Don’t fuck with me.’

The loss margins had dropped by half in the time Jim’d worked. He didn’t talk much, was never late, never fell asleep on the job, and never missed someone pocketing merch.

“You okay son?” the manager asked. Jim looked…surprised, for a moment, before he nodded.

“Yeah boss.”

“Not everyday you get a gun pulled on you,” he tried, but Jim just shrugged.

“Kid hardly knew how to hold it. If he’d fired, the recoil woulda knocked him on his ass.” And the manager knew he wasn’t wrong; he’d watched the tapes after all. The kid came in with his sawed-off shotgun, waving it around like he wasn’t a buck and a quarter wet. That part hadn’t surprised him; they had a lot of bored, dumb kids in town.

No, the part that made him watch the footage over and over was where Jim had cleared the counter, ripped the gun from the kid’s hand, and slammed his nose into the formica. He did it so fast he blurred on the camera. He did it so fast the kid had just blinked at him from his bloody face. His hair hadn’t even fallen out of his bun.

“…is this the part where you ask me to leave?” Jim asked, slowly, like he already knew the answer. The manager shook his head.

“I’ll see you tonight, yeah? Go get some rest.”

Jim squinted a little, like he didn’t understand what he was being told to do, but only for a fraction of a second before complying. He had nodded almost imperceptibly to himself before turning to leave.

He always responded well to clear, direct commands, the store manager had noticed. When Jim was hired, he’d figured him for a shell-shocked vet, and after reviewing that security footage, he was pretty certain that his hunch was right on the money. And not just a run-of-the-mill grunt, neither. Ex-Special Forces or something, probably.

Before he had gotten all the way to the door, the store manager called out to him, impulsively. “Son?”

“Sir.” Jim turned around, his back straightening, acknowledging him somewhat warily.

He grants him an easy smile. “Toldja, Earl’s fine.”

“Earl.” He repeats the name respectfully, looking at him with a sort of dull curiosity. “Earl, this the part where you ask me to leave, now that I’m outta reach of the register and the Glock nine you keep stashed under the drawer there? I ain’t tryin’ to start no trouble, and in a town this small, there’s bound to be some, now, soon as that kid goes tellin’ half the God damned neighborhood.”

It’s the most words he’s ever heard the kid say at one time, and he blinks. “No, son, that wasn’t what I was gonna ask of ya. I know you’re staying down the road a ways at the StarLite Motel. I cain’t say I can offer you too much better’n Maisie can at the motel, but you’re a good man, Jim.”

At this small heartfelt praise, Jim blinks rapidly, his face unreadable. He tilts his head slightly, as if the complement were a familiar phrase in a foreign language whose translation was just on the tip of his tongue.

“I got an old trailer on my property, set back a ways. My…my son used to live there, before. It ain’t been used in a minute, but you’re welcome to it. Y’ can fix it up a little, if’n you’re so inclined. Bed’s comfy, there’s a kitchenette, and it’s hooked up to power, water.” Jim’s still staring at him with that unnerving impenetrable look, so he finishes with, “Y’ ain’t gotta worry about no one gonna be botherin’ you back there, neither.”

Earl’s reminded of the old barn cat on the farm where he grew up. A fine mouser, tough as nails, but skittish as all get-out, never knew what to do with an outstretched hand but claw or bite it. So he’s surprised when Jim draws in a deep breath and exhales a soft, “All right.”


	2. Chapter 2

Maisie who ran the motel– _You look like you’ve had a hard day, hon, I’ll send you a couple sandwiches to your room, free of charge a'course since you been helping Earl so much–_ smiled when he turned in his key. 

“I’ll miss ya, Jim Jones, but Earl’s got a good place. It’s quieter'n here, that’s for sure. Greener, too. I think you’ll like it.“  He nodded, staring at the keys on the desk. The trailer sat back from the house a good 45 meters, and the house itself had a kilometer-long dirt drive off the main road. A span of forest circled the back of the house, slowly creeping into the clearing. Saplings grew next to the trailer’s back door, and a couple of creeping vines curled their way towards the metal roof. Still, he hadn’t seen any water damage when he’d picked the lock and looked inside. And Maisie was right; the trees acted as a barrier, softening the few sounds from the town.  A noise escaped from the woman’s throat, a sort of gruff cough, enough that he looked up at her face. 

“Ohhh, Jim,” Maisie shook her head and touched his right hand lightly. He didn’t pull it away, though that took effort. “You come ask me if you need anything, y'hear?“  

“Yes ma'am,” he nodded, the answer as engrained as the ‘yessirs’ he offered Earl. She looked satisfied and, in that moment, his vision blurred. He could see another woman, mouth set and eyes fond, brown hair pulled back up into a tight bun. A girl clung to her skirt, looking up at him. They all had the same eyes.  He blinked rapidly, trying to clear the–vision or memory, he wasn’t sure. Before the man on the bridge–

_Steven Grant Rogers, born July 4, 1918, his mother’s name was–was–and he couldn’t breathe in the cold–_

_No, fuck, he didn't_

ask

_goddammit–_

before the bridge, double-vision meant concussion. It meant critical injury, to be addressed immediately upon completion of mission. Now he had no idea what it meant other than he’d probably lost what was left of his mind. 

_You come back, James Barnes._

He shook his head violently and rubbed at his right eye with the heel of his hand, trying to forcibly remove both vision and voice. That wasn’t his name. He wasn’t James, wasn’t the Asset, wasn’t Bucky–

_Christ, no, not Bucky, not the way that the man on–that Steve–that the Rogers man had said it, like his face had done more damage than the rest of the fight._

He was Jim Jones, for now. It was a good name. Safe.  Maisie still had her back turned, and he took the opportunity to slip to his bike.  Riding came naturally; motorcycles maneuvered easier, required less maintenance, and could go more places than cars. Even if his mind couldn’t remember learning to ride, his muscles did. On the ride to Earl’s place, he let himself focus on his body. Right turn and his right bicep flexed. Left turn and the plates in the arm tightened. The roar of the engine swarmed his thoughts and vibrations filled his chest and he relaxed into the wind.  

By the time he arrived at Earl’s, his heart rate had returned to reasonable parameters and the ghost women had vanished back off into whatever corner of his brain they’d decided to haunt. He parked around back, next to the trailer just like he’d been told. His boss rocked on the back porch, listening to tinny bluegrass on an old A.M./F.M. radio. In the sudden quiet of the yard, the music didn’t quite sound real. Fiddles filtered into the greenery and mingled with birdsong. Sunlight filtered down through the trees and cast patterns on the ground, and the thought flitted behind his eyes without warning: Holy. The place felt holy. 

He exhaled and managed a smile as Earl approached.  “Glad you’re here, son,” the man grinned. He fished in his pocket and pulled out an old, dented Ford keyfob with two keys on it. “These’re your keys, an’ I got a spare in the house just in case. I tried to clean up a little, but anything you don’t want, you can just put with the trashcans.“  

“I don’t want to get rid of–” he started, but Earl shook his head.  

“Anything I wanted out of there, I got years ago. Make yerself at home.” Earl led the way to the front door of the trailer and looked over the yard as Jim unlocked the door. “You can use the yard all ya want, too. It’s grown up some, but I got tools in the shed. Next time I get a day off, I’m plannin’ on cuttin’ it all back.“  He kept a straight face and nodded in agreement. In the few months he’d worked for the man, Earl’d taken two days off, total. The man liked to keep his hands busy; it didn’t take an asset to figure that out. When he wasn’t rearranging the store or working in the office, he was in the garage fixing cars.  

"Mind if I do a little work?” He wanted clear lines of sight from his exit points, and he couldn’t wait for Earl to come around to it.  

“If you want ta sweat and hack at all that, be my guest,” Earl laughed. “Maybe you can get some of the vines off'a Old Betty.” The garage owner nodded towards a rusted old Chevy pick-up, one Jim had already eyed. The tires had all gone flat and, true to form, a vines twisted up her side. A few hints of faded blue paint remained on her hood and wheel wells, but the truck had clearly seen better days. “Just be careful a the poison ivy.“  

"Doesn’t bother me,” Jim said, and he knew it was true just like he knew a thousand other little facts. He might’ve had to read that his middle name’d been ‘Buchanan’ before, but he  _knew_  that he could climb any one of seven trees in the backyard and make a sniper’s nest. Any detail that might assist him on a mission, he knew automatically.  

“Lucky S.O.B.,” Earl snorted. “I blister up somethin’ awful. Now, don’t worry about coming in tonight. I got yer shift covered so you can get settled in. Do yer grocery shopping, unpack, get a feel for the place."  

"Thanks, boss.” He hitched his backpack up on his shoulder and pushed his way inside. 

The hinge on the door creaked, and he made a mental note to get some grease on that, first thing, lest it signal his entrances and exits. As it banged shut behind him, he took in what he already knew was there: a dusty little galley kitchen to the right, a living area to the left with a couch, a chair, a coffee table that had seen better days, and a bookcase full of half-rotten paperbacks. 

Down a little hall past that, he knew, there was a tiny bathroom with a sink and shower stall, and a bedroom with an ancient mattress on a broken-down box spring and frame. The living room chair had a wicked-looking spring poking out of the seat that would probably nail him in the balls if he tried to sit down on it, but the couch looked serviceable, at least. 

Upon further inspection, there was also an ancient radio/cassette player up on the bookshelf, and experimentally, he turned it on. There was a burst of static at first, but after fiddling with the dial some, he managed to find [some music that he liked](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=68X8o0S7vJc), humming along the best he could to a tune that was both familiar and unfamiliar to him. He remembered, vaguely, knowing a lot of songs, once -

_ssh, Buck, it’s two in the morning and you’re going to wake up the entire God damned block with your yowling_

\- but not anymore, not anymore, that space was filled with static not unlike the hissing in between radio stations, filled with fuzzy, indistinct images.

He’d set his backpack down on the coffee table when he’d come in, and now he took his time carefully unpacking it, item by item. Six knives, a SIG-Sauer P220ST and a couple boxes of ammo, a t-shirt from the Captain America exhibit gift shop at the Smithsonian, and a pamphlet about the exhibit, wrinkled and folded. A handful of crumpled twenty-dollar bills were jammed into an interior pocket, and these he carefully smoothed as best he could and set them into a neat pile. He’d give them to Earl tomorrow, for rent - 

_gotta make sure there’s enough left over for ???? medicine ????_

\- and utilities. Earl hadn’t said anything about charging rent, but he felt like he ought to give him something for a place to stay, like he gave Maisie at the StarLite. He imagined that Jim Jones, whoever he was supposed to be, wasn’t the kind of fella to play the freeloader.

Walking into the back bedroom, he took quick stock of the situation. The bed was bare, save for the mattress covered in musty plastic. Peeling that off, he was pleased to find it was clean underneath. It had taken him a while, while he was on the move, to feel safe using motels for places to spend nights (or days). He didn’t seem to need much sleep, a couple of hours at most, and beds took a long time getting used to. This one, at least, seemed firm enough.

He was just about to test it out when he heard a knock at the door. Instinctively, he froze, and then began creeping towards it, flicking the safety off the SIG. Had they found him? He kept the gun at his side but at the ready. They weren’t gonna take him, he’d rather die

_the chair, it hurts, Stevie_

and he crouched there, waiting, straining to hear movement outside, for a full three minutes until he was able to convince himself that the area was clear. Reluctantly, he puts the safety back on the gun, but he doesn’t put it down as he slowly opens the door of the trailer.

When he does, and finds two blue storage bins at the foot of the steps, the blood drains from his face and he feels dizzy. He thinks of almost shooting Earl, and starts shaking.  _Jesus, Mary and Joseph_ , he thinks dimly, taking a shaky breath.  ~~Bucky~~  no  ~~James~~  no  _Jim it’s Jim now_  stumbles, reaching for the note on top, written in a spiky, old-fashioned hand.

 

> _Jim -_
> 
> _Didn’t want to disturb you while you were getting settled in. One bin’s got bedclothes, the other’s some clothes might fit you. Have a good night, call if you need anything._
> 
> _\- Earl_

 

He drags the bins in, dumps their contents cautiously on the floor as if they contained snakes. There’s a mountain of worn sheets and blankets in one, and some miscellaneous clothing in another - tees, undershirts, some button-down flannels, a couple of pairs of worn jeans. Nothing fancy. Plain stuff, which was fine. Jim Jones seemed like a plain sort of man, he figured.

It takes him twenty minutes to breathe normally again, to get his pulse rate down and under control. While he waits, the plates in his arm calibrate, recalibrate, and still.

That night he makes up the bed but sleeps on the couch, surrounded by his knives and a hand on his SIG. He sleeps like that for the next two weeks, never more than dozing, alert to every sound. 

Just in case.

 

* * *

 

 

He settles into a routine, over the next few weeks. Once a week, stop at the town general store for groceries. Work nights. Come back to the trailer. Work on the pickup. Ol’ Betty, Earl had called her. 

Whoever Jim Jones is, he’s very good with his hands. Especially with automobiles. He doesn’t know _how_  he knows, he just knows that Betty needs a new carburetor, and that her suspension is shot, too. Amongst other things. Slowly, slowly, he manages to piece her together in his free time, which, admittedly, he has a lot of. It’s just something to do with his hands, at first, something to occupy his time. He pulls the radio over towards the door and sets it on the step, listens to the classic rock station as he works for hours.

“Christ, son,” Earl says to him a few weeks later, startled, having ventured out to see what Jim was getting up to. “You actually got that beast up and runnin’?”

Bucky -  _Jim_ \- nodded. “Yessir. Hope you don’t mind.”

Eyeing him and the Ford appraisingly, he nods slowly. “No, Jim, I ain’t mind at all. Fact, we could use a spare pair of hands at the station, workin’ on folks’ cars. Nothing complicated, usually - brake jobs, tire rotations, oil changes, things like that - but if you wanna help out, son, I’d be happy to have you in the shop. You got a real talent, there. Where’d you learn how to restore cars?”

Jim shrugged noncommittally, as if to say  _here and there, y’know_ , but the truth is - he doesn’t remember.


	3. Chapter 3

"Got a job I think you'll like."

Jim slid out from under the '93 Bronco, sweat-drenched and sporting a streak of oil down his cheek. He'd felt it smear when he tried to wipe it off, but couldn't be fucked to stop what he was doing. Earl sat on his left in one of the beat-up metal folding chairs he kept around the place, sweat beading on his forehead. With the ease of practice, he sliced a wedge of peach from around the seed and held it out for Jim on the blade.

He sat up slowly, eyes on the old bone-handle pocket knife. Earl didn't move; he just waited with his hand outstretched. Between them, the peach sat, fragrant and golden and oozing. Fruit cost money, real money, more than potatoes or flour or-

_For Christmas, they all got oranges. Bigger than his fist, the fruit smelled like sunshine and tasted better. He and Becca would laugh and bet chores as they tried to see who could peel the longest strip, and he always saved half for Steve..._

Jim carefully plucked it off the blade, never touching the metal. If Earl smiled, it only showed in the crinkles around his eyes. He cut another piece and popped it in his own mouth. "Maisie says her daughter said you can come pick from their orchard anytime y'like. Just knock on th'door and let 'em know yer there."

He nodded as he chewed. God, he loved fruit. He hadn't - in the years of cold and pain, he hadn't - Earl saved him from that train of thought with another wedge. He took it without hesitation this time and savored the sweetness. He'd bought a few apples from the general store, but he clearly needed to invest in peaches too.

"A job?" he asked. His boss nodded.

"You'll hafta take th' tow truck and go get it, but it's another vintage truck. World War Two era. Susan's attached, but can't make it crank. I said if anyone could, it'd be you."

Buck -  _Jim_ felt himself smile at the praise. He ducked his head to hide it, but Earl probably saw it. The old man still had sharp vision as long as he wore his glasses.

"I can take a look. Can't promise anything."

Earl snorted. "You brought Betty back to life. Reached right into th' rusty afterlife and dragged her outta Death's clutches. Far'as I'm concerned, yer some kind of motor saint."

"Just good with my hands," Jim braced and pushed off the little rolling cart - creeper, Earl'd called it. He pulled up the bottom of his shirt and wiped at the sweat on his brow. The clothes from the blue bin mostly fit him; they pulled tight through his chest and his arms, but the cotton stretched well enough. He favored tank tops or no tops in the trailer; the more the arm could breathe, the better. Anywhere outside the safety of his base, though, he made sure the arm remained covered.

"Aren't you hot, son?" The question didn't hold any malice. It just sounded curious. Jim glanced down at his outfit, considering. His daily attire consisted of long-sleeve shirts, dark pants, his combat boots and the soft leather glove for his left hand. He couldn't risk word getting out of a man with a metal arm or worse: a picture posted to the internet. He'd used the internet, after - enough to know just how easy it was to search.

"I don't mind it," he answered, honestly. Not only was there safety in the heat, he _liked_ sweating. Sweat made him feel alive and kept the visions of ice at bay.

_Their apartment got hot as hell in the summer, hot enough that they never had dry clothes. As soon as they got dressed, the cloth soaked through with sweat. He didn't mind then, either, because Steve's lungs worked better in the heat._

"Y'know, I served. I saw injuries. If you ever-" Earl paused and frowned. "Now, I'm not sayin' you hafta, but. Neither me nor any'a th' other folks around here'd judge."

Jim stared at him for a long moment, then nodded. He wouldn't - _couldn't_ \- risk exposing the arm, but he appreciated the sentiment. Earl, used to his non-verbal responses, stood from his chair and fetched the tow truck keys from the shop office. "Follow Main Street down to th' railroad tracks, then take the last right before you cross 'em. Drive 'til you see two mules watchin' you from o'er a brick fence, take the next left, an' the house you want's gonna be the second one on the right. Need me to write it down?"

"Mules?" Jim asked, not hiding his smile this time.

"They'll be there. They're always there. Ya know what a mule looks like, doncha?"

"Yessir," he nodded. Not that he knew how, but the long face and big ears came to mind anyway. "I can find my way."

"Figured ya could." Earl smiled at him. "I'll be here when you get back."

* * *

 

He found the house easy enough, past the railroad tracks and the honest-to-god mules who watched him drive pass with disinterest. Earl's directional style might not hold up in any sort of tactical sense, but it worked damn well for driving around backwoods Missouri.

The door opened before he could knock, revealing a woman in her mid-thirties. She had a bright smile, freckles on her cheeks and sandy blonde shoulder-length hair. "Hi! You must be the mechanic. I'm Susan." She stuck out her hand and he shook it, surprised to find her palm calloused and her grip strong.

"Yes ma'am, I'm Jim. Earl said you had a truck?"

"It's in the garage. If you back down the driveway, I think you should be able to hook it up without a problem." She stepped off of the stoop and led him over to the two-car garage. "Grandpa built this so he could keep it out of the rain. Said this kinda truck kept him alive in Germany, that he'd 'damn well take good care of her here.'" Her voice got deeper on the last sentence as she mimicked a man long gone. Jim smiled, imagining easily enough a tough old war dog. A few of Earl's friends had the same look; sometimes they'd gather at the shop and swap war stories. He didn't hang around to hear them, but he knew the type.

The door slid up into the ceiling with a tug, and through the dust dancing in the sunshine, he saw it. The low, wide front end, the bifurcated windshield, the open cabin...He knew this model. He knew what the engine looked like, even now. He knew what belts frayed because they slid a hair to the left on their settings. The ghosts in his mind knew it too; he could already hear them stirring. He remembered trees and snow. He remembered--

_Fuckin' thing's busted. We're gonna have to hoof it all the way to Köln._

_With Falsworth's broke ankle? Not even Cap can carry him to Köln._

_Will you two idiots shaddup? Cap's not carrying any of your sorry asses to Köln. It's not busted, it just needs a little love._

And that last voice made him reel, because he knew that voice. He heard it every day. He used it to speak to Earl, though he never had that much of a Brooklyn accent. He blinked and realized the owner was still talking.

"-passed away a few years back, and I inherited all of it. I thought it'd be nice to get it up and running. Almost like having Grandpa around again for those early morning drives." She finally paused and looked at him hopefully. "Do you think you can fix it?"

"Yeah," Bucky - Jim, _Jim_ -jerked his head in a nod. "Might take a few days to get the parts, but I can get her running."

She beamed at him. "That's great! I figured it might take some time, but better than it just going to ruin in storage."

He managed a tight smile back and nodded. "Better'n that, sure. I'll get the truck backed up..."

When in doubt, he could rely on his hands to take over. He got everything hooked up and ready to go, letting his muscles do the work while his mind replayed the voice - _his voice?_ \- over and over. _Will you two idiots shaddup? Cap's not - Not busted - Cap's - A little love-_

_I thought you were smaller._

He hit the brakes and slid to a stop on the old dirt road, throwing up a cloud of dust and making the mules flick their ears back. Bucky didn't remember leaving the house, though he clearly did. He didn't remember if he'd even said goodbye to Susan. He did remember looking up at Steve, his Steve, convinced he was dead and disappointed because he thought dead would hurt less. But Steve was huge, bigger than him, helping him sit up like he didn't weigh anything.

_I thought you were dead!_

_I thought you were smaller._

He took deep breaths and focused, tried to focus, just focus on his hands. His hands first. He had a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, and he could feel the arm locked tight in the sort of grip that kept him from falling off buildings. Or--his brain blitzed out, a string of too-sharp images: fire, blood, pain, a river of oil and debris.

White noise.

"That fuckin' sucked," Jim groaned, head splitting. He hadn't had an attack that bad since before he'd found his way to Earl's. His right arm felt weak as he unclenched his fist, and his hand shook. The metal arm shifted plates and unlocked, leaving behind a blessedly unbent wheel. His heart still rocked his chest, and he could feel his nerves pulsing from adrenaline. In response, the arm whirred and shifted discontentedly. It needed air; Jim could feel the heat of it against his side, through his shirt. He’d get back to Earl’s, drop off the truck, and take the rest of the day to steady himself.

* * *

 

Back in the trailer, the heat was stifling. The minute he was through the door, he locked and bolted it, peeling off his long-sleeved henley and the glove. _Said this kinda truck kept him alive in Germany - not carrying any of your sorry asses to Köln_ \- Sarah’s sandy blonde hair, shining in the sun as she talked.

No. Not _Sarah_. _Susan_. The woman’s name, the woman with the truck, her name was _Susan_. And -

_Steve’s mom’s name was Sarah. He used to put newspapers in his shoes -_

He hisses and shakes his head angrily, as if to dislodge the memories swarming in there, vague and indistinct. “нет,” he murmurs to himself as he strips out of his grease-stained  jeans. “No, that’s not right, he was bigger -” Or was he? His mouth has gone dry, the hairs on his right arm and the back of his neck standing up, chilled and overheated at once.

Jim’s vision blurs, and he stumbles into the tiny bathroom, not bothering to pull the sliding door behind him. Blindly, he grasps for the knob, turning the water on with a quick twist of his hand, and throws himself into the tiny little stall. The lukewarm spray crashes down around him, with the vaguely sulfuric smell of well water.

 _The asset needs maintenance_ , he hears someone say clear as day in the back of his head, a sneering, contemptuous voice..

 _Take my hand_ , he hears a different, far more familiar voice say.

Vision blurring further - is he having another attack? _He’s unstable. Erratic_.

_I’m not gonna fight you, Buck. You’re my friend._

_Stevie-doll. You’re my - you’re my_ \- The voice shakes, wavers. “SHUT UP,” he screams despondently, pressing his forehead to the cheap plastic wall of the shower, his body shaking with sobs.

* * *

 

He spends the rest of the morning working on Betty in the yard, letting his muscle memory take over while he cleared his mind. Earl wasn’t due home from the gas station till late afternoon, and he was still concerned about the heat affecting the arm, so he’d risked a tank top instead of the usual long sleeves and glove. He’d been right, ain’t no one out here to bother or be bothered by, unless you counted the occasional skunk traipsing around late at night.

Before he’d started working, he’d dragged the little radio out to the front step of the trailer, as far as it could go, and turned the volume up, as far as _that_ would go. He liked having music when he worked, liked singing along absentmindedly as he set his hands to a task -

_I swear to Jesus, Mary, Joseph and all the saints, if you don’t stop singing that God damned Andrews Sisters song I’m gonna bust your skull with one of Angelo’s wrenches, Barnes_

\- but they hardly ever played songs he was familiar with on the radio, anymore. He’d been learning, though. Bucky liked this station, the classic rock one. Most of the songs were about being on the road, “sorry baby I can’t stay”, songs about lost loves and drifting through dusty old towns trying to forget the past.

He could relate.

This song, he’d heard a couple few times before. It had a good guitar solo he liked. He nodded his head to the beat as he tightened lug nuts on Betty’s brand new wheels, humming along absently, singing under his breath when he remembered the lines.

 

 

 

> _Well I get so lonely when I am without youuu_
> 
> _But in my mind, deep in my mind,_
> 
> _I can't forget about you_
> 
> _Good times, and faces that remind me_
> 
> _I'm tryin' to forget your name, and leave it all behiiiind me_
> 
> _You're comin' back to fiiiind me…_

**  
  
**

He drops the wrench.

“Jesus,” he swears, his heart thudding in his chest. “Christ Jesus.”

* * *

 

He gives up on his work for the day and finds himself some time later down the road at Maisie’s daughter’s orchard, a little fruit stand out front. Little baskets of peaches rested on the shaded shelves within, bushels resting on the floor - **$5 per basket, $15/half-bushel** , the hand-lettered sign said. Bucky’s never seen so much fruit in one place in his life, and he takes a second to marvel at it, recalling the sweet, heavenly juice of the peach in the garage.

There’s no one manning the stand, just a small locked wooden box with envelopes and a slot in the top, a pen chained to the side. He gathered that you were supposed to write down how much you took on the envelope, put your payment within, and drop it in the box. Good way to get things stolen, he figured, until he realized that there wasn’t anyone around out here to steal, not really. And if they did - well, they probably figured their neighbors sorely needed whatever it was they took, and likely took a blind eye to a missing half-dozen peaches or so.

He bites his lip at the sudden burst of warmth that idea gives him, people being so neighborly like that.

 _When Steve’s ma passed, all the little old ladies on the block dropped off casseroles and soups for a month. Bucky ended up eating most of them, not out of hunger, but to avoid waste because Steve was so blue he’d had to badger him constantly to remember to eat. But it was when Mrs. Goldstein dropped off the pineapple salad, he’d finally been able to convince him_ -

Jim wipes at his eyes, dismissing the fuzzy memory. There’s a little button on the side of the stand, with a sign that says “ _ **Ring Bell For Assistance!**_ ” with a smiley face. He doesn’t ring the bell, just tucks two crisp tens into an envelope and puts it in the slot, and grabs two of the smaller baskets of peaches.

Fruit, he’d always figured, was a sign of wealth. An extravagance, something for rich folks with money to burn. Fruit was a sign of prosperity, of health, of being well-off. A treat, a reward. Well, now he had money, and he wasn’t getting rained on at night or forgetting his own name, and yeah, there were still the attacks now and then, but - there was fruit, and so as far as Jim was concerned he was doing pretty God damned all right for the day. He grins slowly to himself, and tucks the peaches gently into his backpack before taking off on his bike. _Twenty bucks for a dozen peaches. Stevie, if you could see me now - so flush I told ‘em to keep the change._

He eats half the peaches that night, sitting on the steps of the trailer where it’s cooler, looking up at the stars burning bright in the sky, sweet juice dripping down his face and onto his shirt. The damned song has been stuck in his head since this afternoon.

 _It’s been such a long time_ , he sings to himself in a low, hoarse voice. _It’s been such a long time_.

* * *

 

A few days later, he’s in the garage putting the last finishing touch on Susan’s granddad’s truck - couldn’t let her take it home without a polish on it, he figured - when he hears her voice, greeting Earl.

“Oh my goodness. _Jim_. Jim, it’s lovely. You must’ve been in here for _ages_ \- don’t you ever let him go home, Earl?” she turns to tease the old man with a brilliant grin. Earl winks at him, pleased.

He puts the rag he’d been buffing with down, and a smile twitches at the corner of his mouth that he tries to hide. “Wasn’t nothin’, ma’am,” he says politely. “Honest.”

While Earl is showing her what they’d done to restore the car, Jim goes to the front desk to put together the work order for her to sign off on, and that’s when he sees it, right at the top of the page.

 

 

> _Susan Dernier, 0s178 Shady Pines Road, Wheatland, MO._

 

 **  
** His good hand shakes, rattling the paper.


End file.
